Change of Heart
by Evergreen Terrace
Summary: When Marge agrees to fly to LA to meet her half-twin sister, her efforts to fit in drive a wedge between her and Homer.
1. Chapter 1

"As if you're one to give advice. Look at the worthless nobody you married." Selma was standing by her kitchen counter, berating Marge.

Marge's eyes were wide and pink with brimming emotion, "You don't mean that."

"Stop it, Marge," Patty interceded, "Just because you're unhappy with who you have doesn't mean Selma has to be."

Marge stared at her two older sisters. How had it come to this? She'd come only to make amends with her two sisters, but Selma's newest beau was sitting in wait eyeballing her from the start. He was another dishonest sleaze, another in a long line of Selma's bad decisions. He'd treat her horribly like every other man she'd welcomed in and break her heart. She was so trusting of the wrong people, and Patty had turned a blind eye for too long. She had to break it to Selma. She deserved better. She deserved someone not inflicted with relationship ADD.

But Selma took offense at this and Marge had lit the fuse to a bomb in the room.

"He likes me. He's different from the others. We might even get married."

"Selma, please..." Marge pleaded.

"We didn't ask for your advice." Patty cutting her off, "We didn't even ask for you to come here. Did we?"

Now Selma was crying, "Just leave."

Marge watched Patty hug Selma as she turned and headed back for the door.

Once again Selma's newest almost fiance gave Marge a once-over. Marge shivered as she left the same way she'd come in.

Back in her car she broke out into tears. She felt as though she were stuck in an endless cycle. Why did she keep doing this to herself?

"What's wrong with you, Marge Simpson?" she stretched her arms over the top of the steering wheel and hung her head in defeat. She shouldn't have felt sorry for herself. It was her two sisters that were troubled. Not herself.

But they were all she had. They were her family. They came from the same place that she did.

"Marge, you can't listen to them..." Homer held her tightly the next morning.

"They're all I have. They're my family." she shrugged.

"You have me. You have us. We're your family."

"I know. I know." Marge nodded and he held her tighter. But she knew it wasn't the same. They were her sisters. They were in her blood, part of her identity, part of her perspective even if they were lingering at the very edge of that perspective.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Homer leaned in, gazing into her eyes.

Marge nodded and forced her best smile.

"Okay. I've got to go to work. But I'm gonna call you." Homer hugged her one last time.

Despite his own habit of self-indulgence it was impossible to ignore what Marge was going through. If anything this made him hate his in-laws even more. The way they treated his wife. Their own blood.

Heading out the door his thoughts were a mixture of worry for Marge and contempt for Patty and Selma.

The knock came at the door around noon. Marge was still putting away the plates in the cupboard when she turned to answer the door.

"Yes?" she answered, pulling open the door to reveal on the other side a bespectacled little man in a fedora.

He peered curiously in at her, "Marge? Marge Simpson?"

"Yes."

"I'm a private eye from the West Coast. I was hired by a Ms. Leigh Summers to find you."

"Who asked you to find me?"

"Leigh Summers. Formerly Leigh Peters. Formerly Leigh Bouvier. She paid me to find her sister. That would be you."

"I have another sister?" Marge's hair stood on end.

"A half-twin according to my research into your genealogy."

"I have a twin?"

"May I come in please?"

"Absolutely. Can I take your coat?"

Marge took a seat at the kitchen table beside the small man. She felt reborn. She felt embraced. She felt she wasn't an alien in her own family. Someone was reaching out. Someone, the other half of her.

The private eye reached into his coat, hanging beside the table and pulled from a hidden pocket a 4X6 picture of Leigh.

Marge stared at it, there was definitely a resemblance to the woman smiling on the front steps of the gorgeous mansion. But her hair was long and straight down the woman's back, her figure fuller and lips fuller. Her nose, more impish and upturned than Marge's.

"You said she was my twin..."

"Half-twin. Not identical."

Marge nodded, her spirits still lifted none the less, "And she was looking for me?"

"For a few months now."

"Can I meet her?"

He reached into the same pocket and pulled out an airline ticket, "She arranged for you to meet her this weekend."

"This weekend?"

"I said I wasn't sure you were the one I was looking for, but in the last phone call, she said she didn't want to chance waiting any longer to meet you."

The ends of Marge's lips curled up into a profound smile. She was so overcome with hopefulness. She couldn't wait to meet her sister.

Homer was sad to see Marge go, but he realized what the trip meant to her. Their inability to reach the private eye and through him her sister to ask for tickets for the rest of her family was an inconvenience, they didn't have the money to afford to buy their own tickets, but Marge was only happy to be going at all.

The thought occurred to her, as the plane finally touched down in LA, that the woman she was going to meet was the first truly successful woman in her family. A self-suficient woman, one who could afford to pay a private eye for such an endeavor or chance buying tickets she couldn't later refund.

There was no mention of a husband from the private eye. In fact, there was little mention of anything about her sister. What she was doing in Beverly Hills or why the sudden desire to meet her.

There was mention of a letter from her mother, one that may have mentioned her. Though it annoyed her to think that her mother kept a twin sister a secret from her, she could care less now that she actually had the opportunity to meet her.

Stepping out of the terminal, a limousine driver holding a sign with Marge's name in brilliant italics stripped her of any doubt that her sister was anything but a success story.

After settling down in a hotel, the driver drove her to a beautiful cafe area in Beverly Hills where striding past a courtyard she spotted the face from the picture.

"Leigh?" she asked of the gorgeous girl in the powder blue hair. She could've been a supermodel.

"Marge?" the woman bolted out of her chair and quickly embraced Marge, "I can't believe I'm finally meeting you."

"Same here. You can't believe how much of a relief it is that I have another sister."

"I've come into a great deal of money recently and was finally able to afford indulging in one of life's biggest questions. And now I know I'm not alone."

Marge beamed with adulation. She felt the same way.

"So tell me about yourself, Marge." She took a seat, watching Marge do the same.

"No. No. I told the private eye, he must've told you. Tell me everything about you."

"Okay. You win, Marge. I've been in the hills for about a year and a half. I moved here to escape my crazy ex. I had no money and then all of a sudden a business opportunity came about and suddenly I had the means to take a breather and find you."

"Wow. What're... Do you mean like stocks or..."

"No. I'm a model now."

"I knew it. I knew it. You're so beautiful and well dressed. I knew you just had to be a model. Have you done anything recently I might've seen?"

"Maybe your husband. I'm a model for Playboy."

Marge felt her stomach clench in unease. "Playboy? You mean like some high-class..."

"Yes. The men's magazine. Oh, Marge its so exciting. I live at the mansion. I drive a corvette. You can't imagine."

Marge sat, frozen in her seat, stunned by the absurd turn this conversation had taken.

"Oh, and you must meet Hef, Marge. It would mean so much to me. You can meet my friends. You'd love them."

"Leigh, I'm not sure my husband would approve. Or I would approve of going to... or meeting..."

"Oh, Marge. They're not like that. Not at all. They took me in. I think they deserve to know my family a little better. Get to know where I came from."

"I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable. I don't think I approve of your life choices."

"Well don't give up on me that quick, Marge. I went through a lot of grief to reach out to you. Can't you extend the same courtesy to me? It won't cost you anything."

"I'm afraid it will though."

"Oh, don't be so dismissive of people. You haven't even met my friends yet. Here. We'll leave this very moment."

Marge's mouth gaped open in shock as Leigh hooked her arm onto Marge's and escorted her back to the limo.

"Geoffrey. Take us to the mansion. Its time for Marge here to meet the rest of the family. My extended family."


	2. Chapter 2

"Would you stop worrying? They're gonna love you." Leigh smiled.

Through the smoked glass of the window, Marge saw both the opening gates to the mansion and the reflection of her sister's expression.

"That's what I'm worried about." Marge replied as another turn took the car through the gates to the front lawn.

"Well, don't worry. You're safe with me. You're my sister and I won't let anything happen to you."

The immensity of the first room as Marge reluctantly stepped inside the Playboy Mansion was dizzying. The walls, ceiling and rails of the widely-spaced stairway railing were lacquered English Oak.

Approaching almost instantly from the next room was Hugh himself, a buxom blonde in lace negligee arm in arm with the silver-haired pipe-smoking cliche of suave merriment.

"Leigh, welcome back." he unlaced his arm from his busty lady friend and joined Leigh in a hug, as he spoke the pipe hung off his lip as if by magic as his lips parted.

Unclenching her, he took the end of his pipe into his hand and conjectured, "Why you're in high spirits. aren't you? Were you able to meet your sister for lunch?"

"That's why I'm here, Hugh. I wanted you to meet her. This is my sister, Marge Simpson."

As Hugh's eyes turned and fell upon Marge, Leigh put the back of her hand to lips and mumbled too low for Marge to hear but loud enough for Hugh to sense she was boasting "Quite a fox, ain't she?"

Hugh smiled in complete agreement. Leigh had stumbled upon quite a beauty here.

"Marge, its great to finally meet you. Leigh's been talking about you from the first time I met her."

Marge hesitated before she could speak, she had no idea the word of her arrival or her name had spread so far.

Hugh continued beaming "She said this would all be worth it if she could ever find you."

Marge wasn't sure whether she should've felt guilty or just plain self-conscious. Either way it was clear her sister was proud to be with her at last. She could at least take pride in that. That she was appreciated by a part of her family. She didn't want to throw that away just yet because of her sister's friends.

She wanted Leigh to really get to know her, about her husband, her kids, her family. She wanted to pour her soul out and get something other than apathy in return.

But even more she wanted to get to know her sister, even if she couldn't understand why she was here. It was synchronicity. It was someone who cared about her.

"I don't know what to say," Marge stood stupefied by what she was hearing.

"I have an idea." Leigh interjected, she turned and headed back out the door to the limousine.

The time Leigh took moving Marge's luggage from the hotel back to the mansion, Marge was left alone with Hugh for the first time. So caught up in apprehension, Marge didn't notice as Hugh escorted her, arm in arm, throughout the mansion, she'd taken the place of his buxom assistant.

Uneasy from the start, Marge was taken almost immediately to the grotto once Leigh was gone. In the whole time she was there, Hugh couldn't take his eyes off her.

Almost in an instant Marge froze up upon entering the grotto. All around her women were luxuriating in the artificial springs, not a spec of clothing on their bodies.

Calling out, Hugh beckoned their attention in Marge's direction, "Ladies, this is Marge Simpson. Leigh's sister. She'll be staying with us."

One of the women, her fingers wandering up and down her torso sensually quipped "Why does she still have her clothes on" as she laughed.

The other women joined in, the laugh infectious amongst the seasoned regulars.

` "Don't mind them," he reassured Marge "I think they've been in here too long."

Her embarrassment dissipating, Marge shot the women a scornful look before turning and following Hugh back outside.

She watched several other women hurl themselves into the pool, more than a few tossing away their tops once inside.

Marge felt the slow creep of foreboding up her spine as she saw more and more of this place. The shameless debauchery of it all. The hedonism.

"Hugh. Mr Hefner." she started.

"Its just Hef."

"Okay... Hef. I don't think I can stay here."

"Well, why not, Marge?"

"Its.. I'm not like this. I'm not like these women. I can't be like this. I'm a married women. I have a husband, kids, a stable and ordinary life, I don't..."

"Marge... I wouldn't ask anything of you that would compromise yourself."

"Do you mean that?"

"Marge, when you settle down, I want you to call your husband and tell him where you are."

Marge nodded, reassured by that fact. "Thank you, Hef. That means a lot to me."

Hef watched Marge head back into the house before noticing Leigh watching from the edge of the pool. She waved him over.

"What is it, Leigh?" he approached.

"Not here. I need to talk to you... alone. It's about my sister, Marge."

Following her back inside the house they headed into one of first floor's unoccupied guest rooms before she closed the door, locking them inside.

"I already know, Leigh. She's family. She's off limits." he smiled reassuringly.

"Off limits? Why do you think I brought her here?" she responded indignantly.

"I don't understand."

"I'm counting on your powers of persuasion , Hef. You didn't see the way she looked at me when I told her what I did for a living. I can't bare to have her look at me that way again."

"She's your sister."

"And she's all that I have but I risk losing that if she doesn't come around to seeing things our way."

"I don't think I can do that."

"She's practically my twin and she's not willing to accept me as I am. Would you have me change?"

"No. Of course not."

"I can't lose her Hef. If you ever cared about me you'll do what you can to bring her around."

Hef sheepishly nodded.

"Then you'll do it? You'll help me?"

"I'd sooner antagonize a woman I just met than you. How should we start?"

She smiled, leaned in and kissed him deeply, "First thing's first. Grab that red dress I wore to the last party. Have it delivered to Marge's room."


	3. Chapter 3

"Homer can wait," Leigh interceded, Marge watched her take the phone from her hands, "They're waiting for you downstairs. This party is in your honor. You're a part of my life now, Marge. I want to show you off."

Marge looked back down at the red dress draped across her bed, "That much I understand."

She lifted the dress by its shoulders, admiring the sleek satin veneer as it hung in the air.

"Its very beautiful," she said, a bit awestruck that it was chosen for her, she laid it back down and shrugged "If you want me there, I'll be there."

She unzipped the back of her green dress and exchanged it for the short red one. Tying the strings behind her neck, she checked her reflection in the mirror.

"Does this neckline come any higher?" she stared worriedly back at herself in the vanity mirror. The neckline daringly low, she pulled at the sides of her dress in hopes of concealing herself better.

"Oh, Marge. You look beautiful. Come'on..." Leigh tugged on Marge's arm, escorting her out of the room and down the stairs.

Marge spent most of the night adjusting her dress, wandering from clique to clique, one conversation to another, she shook hands, collected complements and turning down offers to dance with strangers.

She feared as the party drew to a close that her efforts to avoid drawing attention to her dress, drew even more attention.

She blushed beet red in the last minutes of the party, before settling back with Leigh, Hugh, who she hadn't seen the whole party, approached with an open hand.

"Marge, I'm afraid I spent the whole night with old acquaintances. Would you be so kind as to grant your host a dance with the guest of honor?"

Marge began to shake her head when she felt someone touch her hand and looked down to see that Leigh's hand had landed on top of her own.

She looked back up at Leigh who stared back at Marge like her own conscience, but the voice wasn't telling her to refuse him.

It said Be nice. He did this all for you. For us.

Marge turned her head back to Hef and nodded.

Not a few steps onto the dance floor, Leigh watched Hef take Marge in his arms like she belonged there.

He stared deep into her eyes as they spun across the patio. Her hands on his shoulders. His hands on her back.

He enjoyed the freedom her dress allowed. She indeed looked beautiful in it. In the reflection of the kitchen windows he saw his hands on her naked back and was reminded of Leigh again. Falling for her.

He watched as the backless dress allowed his hands to slowly drift down Marge's back, admiring the same splendid symmetry he'd noticed in Leigh when she'd worn this dress.

As they slowly turned he saw her watching from the crowd expectantly.

He looked back at Marge, reminding himself he was not with Leigh, but her sister.

His hands never stopped their migration south. Trepidation, as she stared deep into his eyes, confident and filled with conviction, began to slowly wear away at Marge's senses.

His gaze pressed her back against his arms. It felt as though something tenuous was about to break as his hands drifted lower, not slowing at the small of her back.

Marge hid her ragged and excited breathing the best she could. She could feel her heart race as his gaze both willed his hands lower and willed Marge to allow them lower.

"I had this dress made special for a very close friend of mine." he replied, "I was having trouble finding a way to convince her of how much I cared. I flew to see a designer in Italy and spent weeks away from her just to get it right."

Marge felt the words fracture the grip of his gaze on her senses. She took a moment before speaking, "Its very beautiful."

"When I came back she was gone."

"Oh... I.... I'm sorry. She... " though the rush of sympathy was unexpected, she still wanted to offer a kind word "She didn't know what she had in you. It's a beautiful dress, and any woman would be proud to wear it."

"Are you proud to wear it?"

Marge nodded, looking down at herself again, "Its gorgeous. I'm overwhelmed."

"Here..." he said, "You're wearing it wrong."

His fingers gripped the dress along her ribs and tugged it down, he watched the neckline shift lower, forcing a gasp of shock from Marge, her deep breathe thrusting her chest forward, the top of her breasts billowed out from the low recess of her neckline.

Hef smiled, the view confirming Marge was just as blessed by nature as her sister.

"Its a decolletage dress. Like the ones worn by royalty in Renaissance France."

Marge stared down at herself. She was taken aback by how much of her stuck out of the top of the dress.

"This was the way you were meant to be seen, Marge," his hands finally reached below her back.

"What?" she asked, glaring shocked back into his eyes.

"This is the way it was meant to be seen." he smiled.

"Oh," she looked flustered, "Thank you."

The sudden lunge of his foot past her body, as his hand rushed to the center of her back, Marge found herself glaring up at him as he bent at the knees and dipped her backward in sync with the last melodious sting of the dance music.

With his free hand he took her own, leaning her back and stretching her arm above her shoulder, bent at the elbow.

The blood rushing to Marge's head sharpening her senses, she gasped in awe, giddiness and embarrassment all at once. She felt her feet lift from the ground until only her heels were still touching the patio, her body drifting lower and lower, he cradled her in one arm.

Her back arching, her tower of blue hair nearing the floor, the jarring shift from a promenade into a low dip left Marge shaken in his embrace. Her head was swimming from the sheer sensory overload.

Smiling down, he hovered above her, showing no difficulty in levitating her above the dance floor.

The fingers of his left hand her right nearly laced together, Hef watched their hands hover above her shoulder and beside her neck, the strings holding the top of her dress together tied behind her neck in a bow.

He swung his bent leg around her body, shifting the weight of her torso onto his calf.

Freeing up the hand on his back, it moved higher, reaching her neck, he lifted her head until he was staring deeply into her blue eyes.

Her ego soaking in the praise of the crowd, her debonair dance partner moved two fingers inside the loop of the bow, the urge to pull it was wearing away his calm disposition.

Marge was having trouble catching her breath, the look in her eyes told him she was waiting for something, but what?

"You're a very sexy woman, Marge," he said, forcing her breath and chest to heave with more frenzy.

Marge felt she was losing control. Hef was in control now. She only stared into his face, waiting for his lips to purse.

She hated herself for having lost all control.

She waited, riveted by his calm disposition. It felt so strange that he could maintain such a sense of cool in a moment like this. But it made him seem stronger. Marge felt terribly brittle at the moment. Tenuous in the unsparing tension.

She felt his hand unclasp from hers, she drew in a deep breath and held it.

"What are you waiting for Marge?"

It took her a few seconds to realize the voice was outside of her own head. It was Hef speaking.

In that moment, her dance partner was the debonaire man of her dreams. He'd swept her off her feet.

She pursed her lips and leaned forward, in utter compliance with what he was asking of her.

Opening her eyes she saw in his face the question had never been rhetorical. He seemed genuinely curious as to what she was waiting for.

"Nothing," she said, her heart still pounding madly, her insides still warm with brimming affection.

He stood and helped her to her feet.

Rather than just embarassment, she felt a bit miffed by the restraint he'd showed. More self-control than she'd demonstrated in that tense moment.

Stepping off that dance floor she wondered why she'd wanted him to kiss her. What she'd once assumed inevitable, she'd found herself waiting impatiently to happen.

What a strange thought. Waiting for a man she'd just met to kiss her.

He took his bow and Marge took hers, smiling impishly in uneasiness.

He must've known, Marge thought to herself. He must've noticed. He didn't do anything. Why?

Rather than expressing gratitude, she only wondered why things had gone the way they had.

She stared at the phone beside the bed.

What time is it?

Nearly midnight. Was Homer still awake?

She picked up the phone and dialed.

It occurred to her when Homer finally picked up how late it was in Springfield. Three time zones away, her family wasn't far off from dawn.

"Hello?"

"Homer?"

"Marge. What time is it?"

"It's... not late here." a little lie wouldn't hurt.

"Its not? I thought you were only three hours..."

"No Homer. Its still daylight down here."

"Oh. How was your trip? Did you meet your sister?"

"Oh yes. She's wonderful. You'd.... love her...."

"Anything like you?"

"No. She's a model."

"If she looks like you I'd believe it."

"Homer."

"Seriously. Don't sell yourself short, Marge. You should ask if she knows anyone in the biz."

"Homer."

"Yes?"

"I love you." Marge froze up. Homer wasn't ready to hear this yet.

"Love you too, honey. And don't be afraid to cut loose while you're there.

"Homer, I won't..."

"Throw caution to the wind for once in your life. Go wild."

Though she knew he had the best of intentions she sensed condescension, even pity behind his good intentions.

She knew deep down Homer's request wasn't grounded in any real expectation that she would follow through with it. She'd played it safe her entire life and had never been expected to call his bluff.

Now she was only grateful that him not being here, she could get away with lying about it. Telling stories of the adventures she'd never lived in their time apart.

She wasn't that woman and knew just as well as Homer did that neither of them really wanted her to be that woman.

"Thanks Homer." Marge frowned.

She wanted to tell Homer. She wanted to tell Homer everything. But she couldn't.

Reluctantly hanging up the phone, she sat on the bed just as Leigh stepped into the room.

"Who was that?" Leigh asked, seeing the worried look lingering on Marge's face.

"Homer."

"Uh-huh. And what did Homer say?"

"He expects me to cut loose this weekend."

"You don't say."

"He says I should consider being a model like you."

"I like where this is headed. So why don't you?"

"He doesn't know what he's saying."

"I beg to differ. He said you need to cut loose. Show him what cutting loose is all about."

"I'm doing nothing of the kind and nothing you can say will change that."

"Obviously. Nothing your husband says can change that either."

Marge grimaced. She'd hate to mention she hadn't the stomach to tell Homer where she was staying. She didn't know how to break it to him. Hundreds of miles away, he had nothing he could do about it but complain.

"You're right." Marge nodded despondently.

"I'm right?"

More than standing by her own principals, Marge didn't want Leigh to think her ungrateful for her husband's ill advice. There was something opportunistic in her tone when she sensed disharmony in Marge's marriage.

Marge was happy and would go to insane lengths to prove it, "Maybe I should break a few of my own rules."

Leigh steepled her fingers in connivance and smiled, "I think you owe it to Homer to break all the rules this weekend, Marge."

To Be Continued......


	4. Chapter 4

It was a dream, of that Marge had little doubt.

But she couldn't remember lying down and drifting to sleep. The faint hope that the real world existed outside the bubble of this vivid experience kept her from crying as her sister released her into the arms of her host. The dream came to a jarring end as he pressed his lips to hers.

She awoke, still in her dress, glaring up into the ceiling of the guest room. Her heart was racing and she felt tears drying on her cheeks.

Getting up from bed, she showered before changing back into her green dress.

As she stepped out onto the back patio, Leigh emerged from the pool, an absurdly small bikini almost forcing Marge back the way she came.

"Leigh..."

"Marge, " Leigh swept the wet locks of her hair away from her eyes and sighed, "That's no way for a rookie to dress for her first job."

"Rookie?" Marge's head pivoted above her shoulders with befuddlement.

"Last night you asked if you could have some pictures taken."

"I what?"

"You don't recall your conversation with your husband about being a model?"

"I- I-" Marge felt her heart sink, then it throb madly at her feet.

"It was your idea, and Hef was very surprised to hear it from your own lips."

"I asked Hef? In person?"

"You don't remember?"

"No."

Leigh tried to dam any sign of her jubilation, but her eyes still narrowed with scheming, "He didn't think it would be appropriate but you asked him to take the pictures."

Marge's eyes drifted to the reflective surface of the pool, light skimming the trembling skin of the water. In the mirror of the basin's chlorine treated contents she could see everyone's reflection but her own.

She felt hollow at the thought. But she wasn't invisible at all, in fact, she was quite the opposite.

Unclenching her gaze from the water she searched frantically for a seat to sit in. As she sank into the cushion, Leigh leaned over her, a consoling almost matronly stature about her as she spoke, "Marge, destiny brought you here to find me. But I think before you leave you owe it to your husband to show your host just how much we are alike."

Approaching the door to one of the mansion's studio rooms, Marge felt she owed an apology to her husband for this treachery, she felt guilty and dissolute for giving in.

Yet as the door opened, she felt even more reprehensible at the thought of Hugh, whom she'd hassled into this.

Appearing at the corner of the room, something about the way he carried himself across the room made him seem blameless in all of this. She didn't feel she owed Homer anything in that moment, in fact, she partly blamed him for her mistreatment of her host.

She tried so hard to humor her husband, to play along, that she'd overstepped her welcome, perhaps overstayed her welcome.

As she moved to the center of the room, there was nothing but silence, the lack of words making the space seem enormous and the distance between them vast.

Watching him adjust the mechanisms behind the the lens of the camera he only occasionally looked up and even then it felt unsettling somehow that he was willing to gaze into her eyes, but refused to acknowledge she still donned the silk robe concealing her.

It seemed he was doing this under protest. The affection she was certain she'd seen in his eyes before was gone.

"What's wrong?" she finally said.

She watched him try to restrain some deeper brimming emotion as he spoke "I'm not entirely certain you should be doing this, Marge. To your husband, I mean."

Marge felt conflicted over his words. As though her conscience was speaking through him. And now, to console him, she'd have to convince him to do what a less honorable man would do without hesitation.

Marge felt guilt but even more so self-loathing as she forced out the words condemning her "He would want this. In fact... last night I told him where I was and that I was thinking of leaving. He told I'd regret it if I left without hearing from you what my chances were."

Hef's eyes moved to the floor, to wander along its length as he contemplated over her words. She was obviously lying, but his curiosity as to why was outweighed by his determination to see what was beneath the robe.

"The opinion of a man your husband has never met means that much to him?" he asked.

"No. But it does to me." Marge replied.

His back was turned to her, his eyes facing the front lens of the camera, her bashful eyes reflected back to him in the curved glass, her innocence, her naivete so captivating to him.

Slowly he turned toward her. Marge felt a chill move down her spine. As he moved closer his confident green eyes took on a calming glow, dim jasmine ambers where his eyes had earlier been.

Though the thought of her husband never left her mind, Marge felt she owed this man something greater than her obligations to Homer.

A considerable sacrifice would have to be made if she ever expected the guilt she was feeling to ebb.

She watched him clench his lips together, squeeze until the pink slit of his mouth turned white with the strain.

Slowly her fingers crept to the sash tying the robe around her waist. His eyes willing her now, as they had before, he turned his body away again, confident of her ability to follow through once the task was set into motion. The sound of the rustling silk of her robe as it pooled at her feet allowed a smile to pass the disguise of grief on his face. With his back to Marge his lips curled into a confident little sneer.

Turning back he moved his hands to the buttons controlling the servos of the camera. His eyes followed the canon-like length of the camera's stacked lenses before noticing Marge, the robe at her feet, her legs crossed, her hands shielding her breasts from his expectant gaze, he felt even more captivated by her modesty. If anything, it only furthered her attractiveness.

"Is it okay, if we take the pictures like this?" a part of her still wanted to draw the line somewhere, otherwise she was displacing her husband to make her host happy.

"That's... fine." he said, reluctantly returning to behind the camera.

He snapped a few pictures, not bothering to give Marge any instructions.

She could see the fleeting interest in his eyes, but she wasn't going to discard the last of her dignity to make amends with this man.

After five or six shots, he turned from the camera back to her. She quivered a bit as he moved beside her.

As the two shuffled together, Leigh watched from the open slit in the door. She could see Marge's weariness, her eyes never quite meeting his and her hands shaking where they hovered as he finally stood behind her.

She watched him get into position as she raised the small remote control for the camera. Watching the preluding ritual they'd practiced the previous night, Leigh felt her heart race with anticipation.

She watched his hands lift, reaching for Marge's small wrists, the words between them incomprehensible next to the deafening suspense of the moment.

"For this next shot, if you could move your arms slightly..." his hands deft from concentration, gripped her wrists and lifted her hands away from her breasts as Leigh's thumb drummed down on the remote.

In an instant the camera was flashing and Marge was gasping in shock. Her eyes dovetailed from the camera to her unshielded bosom, then back to her host, his head hovering over her shoulder. Her chest heaved, but her mind was at a loss for how to interpret what she was experiencing.

As her eyes turned, pleading as they stared back into Hef's, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

In a moment she was back outside and her prayers were being answered. A deep and longing kiss pressed her back against his body. At her sides she felt her arms resting, not resisting.

For all his treachery, she felt no one else was left in the world to protect her but him. She could feel as his lips pressed to her the infatuation and desire consuming him. Excited but still timid from the strobing flash of the camera she reached down and pulled his hands up to her breasts, their warm grip enveloping them, her lips pulled from his when he only thought to knead them.

She heard herself gasp before his lips reasserted themselves upon hers.

Deep down her mind was a draining well of regrets. She thought of Homer. She felt regret. But her partner's hands were forging cracks in walls, allowing her guilt to ebb away under the pressure. Doing her best to bury herself in thoughts of her family, of the apprehension she'd once had, of her integrity, she felt her hands claw at the sides of her host. She was pulling him closer, though he already was bearing down upon her, she wanted him closer than hands on skin.

One hand on her hip was indication enough that he was getting the message. As it wormed its way between her thighs she thrust her rear against him.

"Yes..." she beckoned him with every part of their lips.

She felt his hand travel up her legs to their axis. The heat in her body was following along with the trajectory of his hand.

Pulling her across the room, she slowly turned her body to face him. Dipping lower on her body, his kisses became lighter as they grazed a trail down her neck and over her breasts, teasing her before she was laid across his bed.

Leaning over her, she could feel both the cold of his silhouette and the heat of his body.

With his tantalizing lips still crawling lower Marge bit her lip. Her effort to distract the defiant voice of her conscience nearly drew blood. But she managed to still it, to suffocate the rebellious screams as her cohort in adultery neared the axis of her hips.

The sigh of his captivation pulled her attention up to face him, her eyes seeing past his eyes wide at the fetching vision before him, to the camera and the clicking shutter behind the glass, the mechanism opening and closing like the valves of a pounding heart. Watching the shutter open and close she could feel her own heartbeat, in sync with the twitching mechanism.

Faster and faster it thudded inside her, her eyes seeing the reflection of her host bent over her, his head between her legs.

She watched, both detached from her own body, and yet captivated by its closeness to this persevering force, as he slipped his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted the groove of her sex to his opening mouth.

The surreal sensation of the man's mouth closing around her pressed her back against the mattress.

He wasted little time before probing to taste what before only her husband had known of her. Though uneasy at feeling the muscle of his tongue pressed into her, she began to part her legs further and lift her groin higher. Furrowing through her recesses, Marge began to roll what of her body still remained on the bed back and forth, restless from the pungent sensations.

Hef watched with rising anticipation as Marge became utterly undone by the machinations of his tongue.

With every break in the coalescing melody of sensations, she could hear him speak.

"Beautiful ... sexy... Marge Simpson..."

She'd almost forgotten who she was until she heard her own name. Though in his voice the name conveyed a history of a different woman, an image unlike the one she'd seen in mirrors.

She could only coo with fondness, lost beneath the crashing waves, each collision of sensation and regret sent her tumbling over.

The deep clench of her body's total resignation to her partner sent her back, flat against the bed.

He knelt over her as her legs collapsed and she laid limp beneath him, her face twisted in an accomplished little smirk.

She was barely awake, but heard his words as she wallowed in the last of the dimming pleasure.

"What now Marge?" he smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

"What do you mean she wasn't on the plane?" Homer, perching the receiver of the phone on the small bump of his chin, pried, the crackle of static separating him from the voice of the woman on the other end.

"A Marge Simpson never checked in for returning flight to Springfield, sir," she said matter of factily.

His brow knit with worry, Homer stared back down through the empty terminal, the bodies of the passengers lost since finished disembarking from the flight.

He'd waited and waited but the familiar tower of blue hair was nowhere to be seen in the throng of bodies unloading from the arriving flight. She'd been gone a week and not spoken by phone with him in days. Had something happened at the airport? With her sister?

"Is there a way to check whether she made it to the airport?"

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

3 Days Earlier...

"What's next Marge?" Hugh asked, not that the answer really mattered, something in his eyes told her not to speak.

The moment of hesitation turning to words, the thought, however unexpected, of her husband as another man loomed over her, his eyes drinking in her nudity, her exposed bosom making her chest tight as her heart thudded away inside it, her heavy breasts heaving in a dance of seduction, one she could not control.

His hands reaching, they were at her breasts, lifting and groping, exploring and gauging their firmness, their fullness, his eyes following his hands like an antuiqitter another work of art for his collection.

His hands cold, clammy, but growing warm from the heat of her body, Marge squirmed on the bed, the words asking him to stop stuck in her throat as he appraised her, one in his menagerie buxom bimbos.

It was wrong, she knew. Though despite her guilt and the unsettling feeling of her nakedness in front of another man, the feeling of eagerness in his touch, the newness of a stranger's hands shaping her flesh between his fingers, the unapologetic way he was using her was filling her with need. The softness of touch she was used to with Homer was gone. She could feel the difference on her skin and between her legs between love and lust.

His eyes watching hers as they gazed down the line of her body, at his hands molding her naked skin, his fingers teasing the pink crown of each areola as he leaned closer, his face mere inches from hers. The feeling of her body filling him and the sharp features of his face with boastful delight as he whispered.

"You can go home tomorrow, but you're mine tonight."

Despite all her years of loyalty to Homer, the bond begun and sealed with the slipping of the ring onto her finger, she was his for right now. The trip she had made, the decision to leave home, to stay at the mansion, she'd passively entered into a contract, a departure from her marital vows, for how long she did not know. Tricked as she may have been, deceived, betrayed by her sister, outwitted into cheating on her Homie and sleeping with a stranger, Marge wondered if there was something in herself that her sister recognized in herself. Something in her need to please everyone that would be put to better use with her on her back.

Her breath escaping in huffs, her lip quivering, Marge bit her lip as her body twisted, her back arching, pressing her breasts eagerly into his warmth of his embrace.

Smiling, he tightly squeezed her, his brutish clutch of his hands forcing a gasp from her.

Between her legs, she could feel something thick prodding at her feminity, all the while her skin was glowing radiant where it wasn't blotching with desire, the heat of her pounding heart expanding and spreading through the membrane of her skin, her breasts growing hot in his hands, the smirk forming on the old man's lips proving he could feel it too, though the features of her face were lit with only panic, her body was atingle unrelenting desire.

His hands leaving her breasts to the cold of the room, Marge gasped as grabbed by the back of her knees her legs were hoisted onto the old man's shoulders, presenting her to his aim.

From the first gruff lunge, the feeling as another man burrowed inside her, Marge's eyes uncontrollably locked on the man taking her, his confident eyes pinning her to the mattress, Marge gasped, her lungs clutching at the air, her hands at the fabric of the mattress pad.

She couldn't speak, she could barely breath, the feeling of the man she'd met barely a day before in places only her husband had been before. Her lip trembling from the strange sensations trickling up from deep inside her, the feelings she expected at the fringe between her and the world, the guilt, the shame, there was only pleasure springing up in the well of her senses, not even despair to spare her from caving in as she acquiesced, sighing, moaning, her legs parting even more she wrapped them around the man's body, clutching at him, her fingers at his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head, pulling him tight against her.

She felt their lips meet and meld warmly in the middle, still desperately she pulled at him, surrendering to her host, her moans growing louder, her insides rippling with every thrust as the pleasure spiked and she screamed, the room fading into blackness.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"These things take time, Mr Simpson," the not quite cliché of a private eye said with a half smile.

Homer couldn't decide whether the man was too lazy to care or merely distracted. Two weeks had gone by and still nothing. Officer Wiggum and the Springfield Police Department were of no help. They had no jurisdiction let alone the wherewithal to open an investigation in Marge's disappearance.

Twenty-five hundred miles away, Selma or Patty or Moe or his dad were watching over Bart, Lisa and Maggie. Homer couldn't remember which, the days and nights searching the city, and what of Marge's belongings he'd brought along for some clue of where she'd gone off to or some evidence of the woman who'd possibly abducted her. Her twin sister? She had none from what he'd learned from her two sisters. So who was this woman and what did she want of Marge?

Two Weeks Earlier...

"...cumming...!" Marge wailed as her orgasm approached, her hands slipping from the bodies encroaching upon her vulnerable nakedness, she tried again to grip the mattress but her hands were wrestled free as a third man shuffled between her thighs to mount her.

The brutal lunge of her second cock of the night into her snug cunny forced the frightened woman to howl, the man was certainly bigger than she'd anticipated. The wide head was splitting her open before the rigid shaft was tailing it, reaming the delicate recesses of her sex as she screamed, her pussy, in a fit of passion seeming to hungrily devour the stranger's throbbing organ.

Doing her best to fight the desire welling up inside her her body, on its own volition, was pulling its invader deeper than any had gone before, deeper than even Homer had been.

Yet still she was cumming, her hips pumping her pussy up and down the anonymous cock, its pink walls sucking wetly to the shaft, memorizing the calligraphy of veins webbing its length as, the man's body shuttering, she offered her womb to the first deluge of spunk.

At her sides, her hands closing into fists, she found herself gripping two more cocks as the first pistoned the depths of her womanhood. Nearly doubled over from the scattered touch of the cock reaming her pussy and two mouths nursing from her tender breasts, Marge gave into the will of the hands now holding her wrists, forcing her to stroke the lengths of the two cocks at her side, their owners groaning with desire as the climax not ibading but growing stronger, more intense took hold of her.

Thrashing and gyrating between the bodies of the now five men, Marge's mouth shot open and she gasped as the two men taking aim shot ropes of spunk over her, the white streams criss-crossing like glaze over Marge's wide-eyed expression. The body between her legs lunging deep felt the dam burst within him, a thick wave of whiteness pouring deep into the shivering woman's body, filling her womb to its brim as he slipped from her warm inviting recesses.

Collapsing in a heap on the bed, Marge stared at the room all around her, the men she'd gotten off, the men who'd gotten her off, the strangely filling feeling of surrender.

She didn't hide behind her hands or turn away as the camera and tripod was moved across the room to snap its first picture of Homer Simpson's spunk covered bride.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The three hour flight and two hour layover in Dallas showed in Homer's grief stricken face as he sat across from the private eye. Weeks had grown into months and he'd begun to lose hope that he'd ever see his wife again until a call that the PI's man on the street knew where they could find a Marge.

_How strange_, Homer thought on the flight in, _that it was not Marge Simpson, but just Marge._

Sitting across from his very expensive PI friend, he tried to read the expression on the man's face, seeing not an uncaring attitude but entitlement as though in his researches he'd uncovered some hidden truth or stowed away secret that his client had either withheld or wasn't privy to himself.

"Well?" Homer said finally.

The PI smiled wryly before reaching into his bureau and pulling from it a magazine, taking his time he peeled his way through the pages, his eyes lingering on its contents with self-absorbed relish, for a moment he seemed oblivious to the fact that Homer was even in the room, before his eyes gazed back up to his unnerved client.

His crooked smile widening the man finally put the magazine on the desktop and pushed it toward his client, "You will find your wife on page 46."

Homer looked at the man confused and then the magazine.

_Playboy. May 2011._

He looked back up at the man, his eyes twitching, the mechanisms behind them winding to some far off conclusion he couldn't yet see.

He was speechless.

"Page 46," the detective said again, and Homer reluctantly picked up the magazine and began to turn the pages.

Homer shuttered as page 45 became 46 and plummeted to the floor, landing just beside his feet.

On the still open page his wife of thirteen years smiled back at him, her head turned to look back over her shoulder as she descended the steps at the front of a church dressed in a long flowing bridal gown, the back open revealing the long naked line of her back down to firm humps of her ass. Around her an all male wedding reception smiled, throwing rice as she made her way to a familiar pink sedan with _Just Married_ painted on its rear windshield.

Homer felt choked up, as if he were staring back at some twisted alternate reality, some perverse turn history had taken without his knowledge. His wife was naked in some girly magazine, her body available for any guy to ogle.

Light-headed and unbelieving, Homer bent over and picked up the magazine again, taking another look, the woman, from her bright smile to her wavy tower of hair was no doubt his wife, the too brief moment he refused to believe it was even her body he was seeing, but a work of photoshop, too quickly faded and his heart sank with despair.

"Marge.." he mumbled to the image of his wife smiling incredulously back at him.

The private eye gave Homer a moment, his own mind ruminating over the body of this client's wife and trying to will the man to turn the page so his eyes might return to the image of the splayed wide legs of the boasting bride on her marital bed.

"If you still want to see her..." he said, pausing for dramatic effect, he felt like he was turning a knife in the man's side but there was something irresistible in making the man admit he'd married a slut, as if the admission demoted him from loving husband to pimp and her, devoted wife to whore.

Nestling himself back into his chair, the private eye had plans of his own for the easily corrupted woman, ".. she's headlining at a place called Double Dee's."

"Headlining?" Homer looked up uncomprehending.

One Month Earlier...

"Marge, its time to let go," Leigh said, leaning over her "sister", her hands pinned above her head, it took little effort to slip the once cherished wedding band from her finger, once gone the finger, and pale impression left by the ring seemed so naked and erotic even as her sister still struggled.

All around the frightened wife and mother, men stood shucking their cocks in anticipation for Marge's continued initiation. As the first lined up, his eyes surveying the writhing form of Homer's wife he brushed the head of his cock against her pink lips, slicking the waiting divide with some pre-cum before he pressed hard, feeling the pink lips yield and unfurl, inviting him into her unguarded depths.

From the first gasp against the pain from the pinned woman, he groaned at feeling the wet warm sheath of Marge's unprotected sex grip his length like a willing virgin. Whatever reservations the shy wife might've had her body had an appetite all its own and he smiled to himself and the others as his patience wearing thin the slow piston of his organ deep into her comely sex turned to a rapid pounding as he pumped the woman's tender insides like he was drilling for oil, her knees finally lifting and legs wrapped around him with complacency, she cooed with gratitude.

Unable to catch her breath, Marge stared over the slumped shoulders of her lover as she clutched the sinewy muscles of the man's back, her hips throwing her pelvis up to impale her hungry cunny on another cock, the rabble of admirers cheering on the whore who'd taken over the persona of Marge Simpson.

Her eyes wide but unseeing she threw herself with reckless abandon into making love to the stud sent to breed her. In the deepest recesses of her imagination she could feel the beginnings of something alien and mischievous manifest itself, the war between her conscience and desire near to a close, the image of herself, pinned beneath another man, and another and another making the feeling of need between her legs grow more ferocious and unsparing in its appetite until she was throwing her groin up into her partner's, forcing the wide head of his cock into the deepest depths he could reach, her body shuttering in a fit of hysteria, her eyes closing to the wall of human bodies around her, she screamed crazily "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuuu-ccckkk meee!"

Above her the grunts of her partner she could feel the muscles of his body grow taut and the throbbing meat of his cock inside her begin to swell, the inner wall of her pussy rippling in waves, her tits tingling with elation she finally surrendered utterly "fill me up, baby, fill me up, give it to me, give it to me, fill me up with your... your... ahhh..." she groaned, her voice growing deep then stretched thin to a seductive purring noise as the warm blast of his spunk filled her famished insides.

Locking ankles high on the man's back she was in a place of utter complacence before the next man took the last one's place and her trip began again, the now insatiable hunger between her legs blurring where one man ended and the next began, the parade of bodies wearing late into the night before waking to the image of the black glass of a camera's lens she stared back at herself, her body transported some thirteen years back to her wedding, only the oozing white oil slick of cum running down her thighs, beneath the inverted bowl of her gown's skirt any reminder of the past nights endured and the pleasures she'd experienced.

"Where am I?" she mumbled back at the shapes just behind the camera, her eyes unprepared to focus, she waited for a response.

"You're home, Marge. You're where you belong." a voice called back.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Leaving the PI's office without a word, Homer took the long walk back to his hotel. His eyes once alive with hope, he gazed back morosely at the world he'd once known and wife he thought he trusted. He'd put the magazine with Marge's likeness down without the slightest provocation and skirted it right out the leery-eyed man's office without a word.

Passing several newsstands on his walk, Homer's eyes, like a knee jerk reaction, turned incredulously in their direction, in pursuit, no doubt, of the infamous smut rag that gave some clues or emitted some faint echo of the woman he'd once known. Somewhere behind the wall of his grief his curiosity was stirring, by the third and forth newsstand his gaze was peeling away from his path, by the eleventh and twelfth the realization that such pictorials were accompanied by articles with interviews fell upon him and he was straying from his path. Standing sheepishly at the border between the technology section and adult section, surveying the selection before his eyes fell upon the familiar cover art.

He had little memory of the time it had taken him to make it from the last newsstand to his hotel room, though glaring over the shiny cellophane enclosing Marge's lurid deception, he wasted little time tearing the plastic wrapping open and peeling back to the place he'd last been.

Beside the picture of his wife, donning her risque bridal gown the words _Here Cums The Bride_

A shutter went through Homer, he could feel his face grow hot and red with anger and he peeled to the next page, so much of the rage pouring out of him but with no place to go it crashed against some concrete barrier in his mind, the collision like a spark in the synapses of his brain triggered some deeper or torrential rush of despair as his eyes settled over the image of his wife, her legs spread as she laid across a red satin sheet bed, exposing her pink sex to the center of the page.

Shielding her bosom with the bedspread, Homer saw some faint sign of the shy, almost reclusive woman he'd met all those years ago in high school, the timidity that'd kept him from so much of the beautiful woman he'd come to know after their honeymoon. Now, before his pained eyes some asshole with a professional camera had talked her right out of her clothes. He stared, forlornly back at his wife, her mischievous smirk, and the pink lips of her sweet cunny now exposed for the world to see.

Turning the page, he exhaled, the air escaping in a rustling huff of despair and surprise. She'd dropped the sheet she'd been holding about her bosom, her large natural breasts pale and glorious in the amber light of the honeymoon suite, the shoulder of the would be groom just at the fringe of the picture, she was no doubt seducing the man, Homer knew was, his eyes scanning the words on the page, saw her name and then his own, supposed to be him. His gaze traversing the words, the intimate details of their married life he felt the white and black orbs tremble in their sockets with grief, the lids brimmed with tears as he blinked them back to the best of his effort. There was something retching deep inside of him now, he could feel Marge twisted it into some impossible and deformed shape as he put down the magazine, the page falling back, revealing yet another image.

It was their home, their kitchen and Marge was preparing a meal for her lucky hubby, naked, her long spindly legs strutting across the room, her breasts despite the stillness of the singular image seeming to bounce, the gibbous orbs ducking down then springing back up, her shapely and well displayed derriere well lit against the artificial light mimicking the daylight through the kitchen window.

Resting his head in his hands, he tried to close his eyes and block out the images nestling themselves already deep into his self-conscious. He could feel them like a premonition waiting to revisit him in his dreams as nightmares.

He had to know why this had happened. How it could've happened. He had to find her. Talk to her. Force from the narrow keyhole some semblance of what'd happened on the other side of the closed door. What he couldn't see, what only his wife could explain to him.

His hand quick to the phone, he dialed the number, waiting for the voice that minutes before had been about goading him into tears.

"Matthew Donner, Private Eye," the familiar voice responded.

"Its Mr Simpson. I want to see her, take me this place. I need to see her before I go."

"Gladly," he said, "Marge, wasn't it?"

"Marge Simpson."

"Not anymore apparently." the private eye quipped.

On the other end of the line, Homer stared confusedly back at the phone. What did he mean? What could he mean?

One Month Earlier...

The words "where you belong" fizzled in Marge's thoughts as her unprepared eyes adjusted themselves to the world wrapped in the warm Spring air, the eyes trained on her, the shapely curves of her derriere so accessible to their gazes in the backless dress, she could feel their gazes like hands on her bare skin, Marge found herself staring back into those hungry lusting eyes, the part of her most ashamed of her exposed state willed to confront all the leers in sight, now too many to count.

The feeling of the natural light on the side of her face, warming the skin of her cheek stole Marge from the moment's reassurance she was in a studio, instead, blurred at the fringes of her peripheral vision she could see cars shuttle down the street. She was outside and worst of all the crew had made little effort to block the commuter's view of her half-naked on the steps of the grandiose church.

"Bradley, could you help Mrs Simpson with her dress please," the man behind the camera said with a knowing wink, watching some blemish faced intern nod and encroach upon the nervous bride, "her dress, lower on the shoulders please.."

Marge about screamed when, following the shutterbug's commands, the apprentice pulled the neck of her dress forward, it slipped down her arms and puddled at her feet, rendering her utterly naked in the stark daylight. Her hands quick to cover her body as she cowered, the effort pointless as her thin arms and small hands couldn't cover enough of her massive udders to spare her dignity.

Just behind the camera, the man relaying commands to his intern smiled to himself, watching Mrs Simpson's face turn a bright red from embarrassment. The delectable curves of her supple body shook and shimmied as she struggled in vain to conceal them.

To Marge's shock and awe people had begun to stop on the street, motorists turning the distance past the prop car with the _Just Married_ on its rear into a parking lot, commuters stared back at her, craning their heads out from the interiors of their cars to catch a better glimpse of the shy wife and mother's fit young body.

"The dress! The dress! Pick up the dress!" she cried back at the intern, fear vexing the delicate features of her face as she watched the man look back at the man directing her from behind the camera and then hesitate. The heavy linen leaden at her feet, she squirmed, bending to pick it up, the figures behind her bursting at their seams with laughter as she bent, her shapely hips parting, revealing the deliciously pink divide of her pussy.

Snatching the gown up as slowly as the boy could afford to, the feeling of the chilling breeze on her pussy lips sent an anxious shutter through Marge, her whole body shaking as at the fringe of her jostled senses she heard to further her despair, a police siren.

"So, what do we have here?" Marge heard, her eyes still downcast, looking over the dress as she tried desperately to pul it up around her body, shielding her from the crowd of onlookers.

"Just a wardrobe malfunction," she heard the man behind the camera chirp half-heartedly back from behind the camera.

"Really?" she heard the cop respond, his broadly shouldered silhouette falling over her before pressing the sole of his shoe against the lump of bridal linen, he pinned it to the concrete steps, leaving Marge bent over, naked as the bodies around her leaned close for a better look.

"Please," Marge meekly pried, with her sullen words and feeble hands at the foot pinning her dress to the ground, but the man wouldn't budge an inch.

"Stand up and face the officer addressing you," she heard from another officer, one now just standing up from behind a parked police cruiser.

Her eyes wide and trembling with tears Marge timidly began to stand up straight, her body softly shaking against the cold air, one thin forearm failing to impede the heaving of her heavy bosom as she slowly met the stare of the smirking officer.

Her gaze briefly breaking away from his, she saw the name on the badge, Officer Green, before her gaze was lifted and she caught his eyes on her body. By now it was less of a surprise that he seemed to like what he was seeing. She'd been such reserved woman in her former life, shy and unsuspecting of how the world had perceived. Now it was clear how the world saw her, it was plain as day in every leery eyed stranger she'd met since coming here.

Not bothering to meet eyes with Marge a second time, he angrily caught her by the arm and jerked it away from her full bosom, revealing the pink nubs of her nipples stiffened by the cold atmosphere.

The smirk twisting into an even more unsettling look of belligerence, he looked a second time at Marge, their eyes meeting, an warden to his prison, a puppeteer to his marionette.

"I think Indecent Exposure sounds about right for this blushing bride, don't you think, Al?" he said, barely shifting his posture toward the man he was speaking to. Deep down, though, Marge knew he was merely addressing her in the third person.

"Sounds about right to me," the officer said, now a human blur in a blue uniform just over Green's shoulder to the shell-shocked wife.

"Book her then. A few nights in a cell should set this slut right," he said, still smiling and still holding Marge by the arm. She watched as his grip at her elbow slipped, descending the length of her arm until he was holding her by the wrist, lifting her hand, brandishing it long enough to notice the pale impression left by the ring once before on her finger, "Ahh, I mean slut wife."

Marge felt the blood rush to her head, her whole head throbbed as she met the man's lusting gaze, her face hot, her body and blood cold as she shook in the man's grip.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The slow steady hypnotic heartbeat of the pounding music beat in cacophony with the pumping muscle in Homer's shrinking chest as he stepped through the double doors and past the bar. The light, amber by the stock of liquors and purple over the black lacquer runway dividing the club, lit the eager faces of the men ogling the lithe body mounting the pole in the center of the stage.

For a moment, Homer thought he recognized Marge's wavy blue locks as the woman spun her body around the chrome pole, and clutching his eyes shut he saw, projected onto the screen of his conscious mind, his wife, page 49, 50, 51, all the way to 63. He'd put the magazine away after placing the call to the private dick, and yet like a masochist craving the rush of endorphins, he stole himself from the phone and his right mind, back to the pages, the grief and agony clutching at him again.

The body on the stage was not Marge's though. The beachball shaped breasts on the lithe platinum blonde, the the ultraviolet light merely painting the shimmering waves blue, Marge's own powder blue, this was not Marge at all, barely a facsimile.

Taking a seat at the bar, he glanced over the room again, women moved about the room, but none looked like Marge. With great determination he stared through the half-darkness at the back of the enormous room, expecting his wife of so-many years to step out from the curtain separating the kitchen from the customers, when the lights about the stage began to dim and a crackling noise, like the sound of a needle from a turntable being placed on a record filled his ears followed by a long stomach churning silence.

The air was still, musty with perspiration, no doubt that of the dancers on the stage, yet the sound of the red curtain where the back wall met the runway rustling stole Homer from the stillness in the atmosphere. He followed the aim of the spotlight to where the curtain was parting.

A shiver ran down his spine as from the furl slipped the long naked stem of a woman's leg.

Despite how incredulous it seemed, he recognized it, from the curve of the heel, to the line of the achilles tendon to the firm lump of the calf muscle, up behind the knee and back around to her shapely thigh, the body of the woman he'd fallen so utterly for, who he'd courted and worshipped. The perforation of the curtain unfurling, he stared, his eyes trembling in their sockets as the familiar tower of blue hair brushed back the red velvet of the drapes and he was staring back at his wife, pacing the stage, owning it with every strutting step, every sinuous flair of her shapely hips.

A natural, he was ashamed to say, so only thought it to himself, seeing his wife slip into the role of the dancer. In the shimmering jade of her surveying eyes Homer could see some brief flicker of the woman he remembered, the eyes wide, cognizant and terrified of the strange men looming at the the edges of the stage, but with the first pound of bass as her song began he watched the woman he knew vanish, her eyes narrowing as though on a singular purpose she began to move.

Over the pounding heartbeat of the music, Homer could hear a name, slip through the cracks of the wall of blaring music.

"Once a shy..." the words muffled by the blast of the music, "meet our newest addition, Marge Boob-ea."

Homer felt his face grow hot with anger. Though a small part of him was almost happy no one knew her as Marge Simpson, that she'd kept her maiden name only to turn it into a joke about her top-heavy shape, an aspect of herself she hated to be reminded of upset him.

A moment of almost relief stilled the air before like a bright beacon the spotlight fell fully on Marge, and he recognized the ensemble and the song playing over the speakers, _Stacy's Mom_.

She hadn't slipped into the role of some other person. The words he'd heard moments before replayed in his head, the blanks filled in by a finer tuned sense of cognizance.

_Once a shy wife, Marge Simpson_. Now no more.

He'd seen Marge in an apron like this before. He'd almost failed to recognize the stoic determination spurring the now fluid movements of her curvy body, the same zeal for life that had made her warm repurposed into something carnal and untamed for her lucky audience. She wasn't the shy wife and mother he'd grown to love but a seductive tigress on the prowl.

Whoever had lured his beloved away from him had either instilled or fostered some long hidden aspect of her personality, found within her something Homer had never seen. A new and more vital purpose.

Her hips swaying sensually to the rhythm of the music, Homer watched as she bent at the knees, the eyes at the rear of the stage widened as she pushed out her round ass taut against her skirt, how the hem had begun to crawl up her body to reveal the pale skin of her upper thighs, he watched mortified as her fingertips helped the hem creep ever higher until, gripping the taut sheath, she tore it from her lower torso, exposing a sheer g-string to the now cheering audience.

In the moment, his eyes darting away, he saw what remained of the skirt, the velcro tabs lining its sides exposed as it unfurled open.

His gaze reluctantly crawling back to his wife, he watched her make her first full circuit of the stage, her long spindly legs exposed to the spotlight of the stage as she moved, her movements lissome as she made her way from man to man, her gaze entreating with every eye she met. Homer felt his insides quiver, tremble, like the something had been jammed between the gears driving him as her hips flared, now crawling on all fours teasingly past her male admirers, their hands reaching, touching her and stuffing rolled up dollars behind the strings tying her panties over her hipbones.

Back to the center of the stage, turning her body away, exposing what he saw now was herself naked beneath the apron, the strings tying the garment to her crisscrossing her long lithe back, down to where the g-string thonged the twin humps of her bare ass, he watched, her ass still swaying in time with the music, she began to play with the strings tethering the apron to the top half of her body.

"Please, Marge, don't.." he mumbled, the words inaudible beneath the tremendous pound of the music, as she turned her body, her lips twisted in a mischievous smirk as she picked at one string between her index finger and thumb and slowly pulled, the knot at its axis unraveling, as the upper left corner of the apron fell away, exposing the upper half of one full bosom.

Peeking from behind the parted curtain of linen it was miraculous to think the garment could even contain her. The uproarious cheers not loud enough to drown out the pounding of his heart between his ears, he could feel the throbbing muscle plummet as the second string came undone, the floral linen peeling away, the plump upper dome emerging to the brightness of the spotlight, he tried to close his eyes as her hands slipping to the final string, the apron fell as a whole, puddling at her feet, he heard the audience explode with glee as she stood in all her glory, her naturally large breasts pale and enormous in the unsparing spotlight, her disproportionately small areola making them seem even larger as the small buds of her nipples noticeably stiffened in the hot air of the room.

His gaze sinking from the stage, Homer stared at what little of the floor he could see through the cavalcade of feet rushing the edge of the stage now, his eyes closing, his face from hot and red to pale, bloodless, he shivered, sinking in his seat the moment before he realized the music was still playing, her routine wasn't over.

Two Weeks Earlier...

It wasn't possible, the past few hours, the past few... What had it even been? Days? Weeks? Months? Naked beneath the stripper style bridal gown, she could don only a thick wool blanket after she was booked and put in a cell. Sitting at the corner of her cage, the days passing, the traffic of people in and out, a few women, but a whole lot of men.

Why in the supreme judgement of the arresting officer was she placed in a cell beside the men was beyond her. The first day, the crude remarks. The second and third like a legion of undead their arms were reaching through the bars for her, men came and went, but as though as a single appetite it grew more voracious with time, until the disquiet was spreading to even the officers.

Her eyes downcast, her senses with time ruminating, narrowed into selectivity, she listened to the sound of only her own breathing, blocking out to the best of her ability the yells and chants of her fellow prisoners, even the hushed words of the officers watching her from the sidelines before to her disbelief she was given a guest, a thin-faced girl in torn nylons and a short black dress stared back at Marge, her makeup smeared, her eyes pinched and hazel narrowed at her buxom blue-haired host as she sidled up to sit beside her.

"Marge... " Marge offered the woman her hand to shake.

"Don't care, bitch," the woman replied back, before her gaze, downcast, returned to the officer she'd chatted with moments before. The officer who had brought Marge in the week before shot the girl a determined look, as though by stare alone was willing her to do something.

Her eyes darting back to the men in the closest cell, Marge sat, still ruminating over the past few days, when she felt the woman's hands slip around her and pull her from her seat.

"Bring her over here," she heard from one of the men in the next cell.

Turning her body, trying to brace herself against anything but only clawing at the air as the brute of a woman shoved her, she began to scream as she was shoved finally against the bars, the hands of the male cellmates reaching toward her, gripping her .

"No! Stop! Please! Help!" she began to scream, her new cellmate, releasing her to her male captors, but not before pulling away the wool blanket, rendering her utterly naked, her body pressed against the bars.

She quivered, her hot skin against the cold bars as the exposed curves wet beset upon by hands, fingers, lips, even tongues. Screaming for the brief instant before a hand was snaking between the bars turning her head to face its owner's, her lips pressed tightly against his, the probing muscle of a man's tongue slipped inside her. Her hands gripping the bars, she cringed, squirming as palms and fingertips scattered, groping her naked body, a mob amassing mere inches away. Her body shifted along the metal lattice, she screamed into the mouth of the man kissing her as she was pulled, her massive udders thonged by a metal bar two men bent at the knees, licking and sucking her tender nipple buds.

The hands gripping her thighs, pulling her tighter to the bars, she braced herself as she felt something hot brush her between her thighs. Her eyes unable to see past the looming head of the man still kissing her, his hot tongue filling her like another cock, she shivered as she recognized the thick mushroom shaped tip of a man's cock as it slipped between the lips of her pussy and up deep inside her in a singular thrust.

Her upper body in the grip of some six or seven bodies, their mouths and fingertips wandering up and down her squirming nudity, the fingers fumbling, fondling and molding her full breasts as tongues grazed and teased their way over the raised flesh of each areola, up and down her thighs, she shivered as the unsparing piston of another man's cock began to fill her, a dull throbbing heat filling her to grip the pink walls rippling from his lunges.

Wanting to beg, wanting to scream as the cock filled her and the fingers and tongues teased her, she felt her body, by its own volition, set in motion, felt her hips buck and her throat burn as she howled deep into the other man's mouth, her pussy melting around the faceless man's cock as it hammered her tender insides and spit jet after jet of spunk deep into her womb.

Her eyes closing, her knuckles white from gripping the bars as she humped the now ten or twelve men taking turns at her tits, her pussy and when finally she was on her knees, her head pulled between the bars, her own mouth, she collapsed, the wall between her and her inner most desires torn down brick by brick, she stared up at the grimy ceiling of her cell, hot white strings of cum glazing her thighs and the light creamy lips of her pussy. She coughed and stared up and saw nothing, feeling the cum well up from inside her, dribble down her lips and over her chin, and down her neck and over her tits. She had to force herself to laugh in the utter hysteria of the moment, the incomprehensible irony that she could feel deep inside her how much she enjoyed it, the wave of heat, torrential and filling between her legs now, in the pit of her stomach, as she gazed back and saw in the chaos of her epiphany herself pinned against the bars, being fucked by so many strangers and feel turned on by it.

For a moment, she thought of Homer and the kids, and the life she'd had before coming here. She thought of Leigh, of Hugh, of the past few days and her unsettling metamorphosis and was filled with regret.

What was she becoming? What had this town turned her into?


End file.
